Lost
by Maireban
Summary: Alistair & Elissa have ruled Ferelden for the passed three years when a most unexpected visitor arrives in Denerim. Oneshot for a friend. Pretty much lemon. ; Please R&R!


Elissa finally finished drawing the comb through her golden hair. A quick check in the mirror assured her that every waving strand was in place. It simply would not do to have the Queen of Ferelden running about like an orphan – the palace wasn't Highever and Elissa was no longer the carefree child she once was. She practiced her simpering smile at her reflection, bobbed herself a curtsy and glided out of the room. Alistair was waiting, holding the fort in a hall filled with nobles, all of them rabid with matters that needed the King's immediate attention.

Three years had passed since that day on Fort Drakon when Elissa was officially inducted into the ranks of Heroes. The Hero of Ferelden, they had called her, and for years after. She hated the title. To her own mind she was still Lady Cousland, daughter of the Teryn of Highever. The last three years had passed in a blur, her unceasing attentions required to rebuild Ferelden, keep her garrulous nobles in line, and teach her husband the skill of ruling that it had taken her all of her twenty-six years to perfect.

The raised voices in the hall seemed to suggest that she still had a great deal of teaching left to do. Alistair, the sweet creature that held her together during the Blight, was beginning to drive her mad. She loved him dearly, but it had taken years before the differences in their upbringings, and their corresponding values, began to show. Elissa had learned from her father how to keep feuding vassals in check. She had learned how to wage wars and ensure the loyalty of the peasants. She also knew how to command a room with her mere presence.

"Her Majesty, the Queen!" boomed through the Hall when Elissa brushed in, and at once the babble of voices went silent. Banns and Arls alike turned to her, bowing or dipping their heads. Ferelden's lone Teryn crossed an arm over his chest as he bowed and Elissa risked her handle of the crowd to drop her brother a wink. She fought desperately to fight down the surge of annoyance rising in her gullet when she took in the sight of her husband, staring at her in utter relief. Surely, after three years, he could handle a room full of his own nobles?

None of her ire could be guessed from her smile, flashing at Alistair as she took his arm. She attempted to give him a tug, to pull him towards the front of the room, but he resisted her. That, at least, drew a raised brow from Elissa. Alistair was quick to attempt an explanation, "My dear…my lady…Elissa…" His voice dropped in pitch with each address, his already tenuous hold over his emotions wavering. Elissa just tilted her head. "We have…I can hardly believe this, nobody can hardly believe this. Eamon left. Got up and left."

Elissa's brow remained arched, her face frozen in an expectant smile. "Eamon left," she repeated at length. Alistair nodded dumbly. Elissa's fingers tightened their grip on Alistair's sleeve. Not that she was upset about Eamon leaving. He had always had too much control over Alistair for her liking, and she still could not believe that anyone would give up their place as Arl of Redcliffe merely for the 'good of Ferelden'. Nonetheless, Eamon having the gall to walk out on the court did not portend good things. "Why?"

"He left because…he left." Alistair shrugged his shoulders, looking desperately about him. Elissa had finally had enough. Something was going on. In all her time as Queen she had never seen Alistair left this speechless before. Something was wrong. And, like usual, she would have to fix it. But it was rather difficult to fix what one does not know is broken.

"Your majesties, if I may…?" Fergus. Thank the Maker, somebody who would talk sense. Elissa's emphatic nod was answer enough, and Fergus continued, "It is the King." Alistair's jaw dropped and Fergus quickly recanted, "The late King. The King later than the late King." He rolled his arm as though to thereby draw his sister's mind back to kings passed, and Elissa found herself unconsciously mirroring the gesture. "Maric, 'Liss."

The use of her nickname, in the court of all places, was enough to snap Elissa back into the present. She smiled her most charming smile, nodded as though she had just been informed that the price of wool was remaining level, and gestured to the hallway leading towards the more private areas of the palace. "I see. My lords, my ladies, His Majesty and I must discuss this. If you should wish to remain, we shall have food laid out." She grimaced inwardly. It wasn't much of a reassuring speech, but this was not a discussion she was about to have in front of the whole court.

The next time she tugged on Alistair's arm he followed, almost eager to get away from the crowd that so desperately wanted him to do _something._ "Fergus, find Arl Teagan and meet us in the King's study," she whispered to her brother as she passed him. Once out of the court Alistair hustled her to the privacy of the study, unceremoniously tossing her into the room and slamming the door behind them.

"My father. Is here. I've always wanted to talk to him. To get to know him. If he wanted anything to do with me, anyway. I can't believe this. I can't. I didn't even know who he was, but everybody started buzzing like a beehive, and Eamon said 'that's Maric' and walked out the door like he was dreaming. He looked a bit like me. Have you ever seen him? He does look a bit like me…"

Elissa let him ramble. Alistair always rambled. Oddly enough, it comforted her when he went on and on about nothing. She was well into the process of letting it become a background hum when the whole thing finally started making some kind of….sense. "Wait, wait, wait!" Alistair turned toward Elissa as though just made aware of her presence. "Did you say Maric is here? Here? In the palace?" She pointed at the floor for unnecessary emphasis.

Alistair nodded. "You're telling me that Maric, _King Maric_ is in the palace right now?" Once again a nod. Elissa's head started spinning so fast she felt ill. A hundred different thoughts started swirling about. What did that do to Alistair's position as King? Was there going to be civil war? Was it really Maric? Did he even _want_ the throne? How was it that he wasn't dead? What had he been doing for the passed nine years?

She sank into Eamon's armchair, burying her head in her hands. "So, did you? Know him, I mean? Do I look like him?" Alistair had that achingly hopeful tone in his voice, the one that reminded Elissa of a puppy. She glanced at Alistair, her mind transforming his features into those of the Maric she had once known.

Elissa had hated him when she was a child. Mostly because she loved Rowan so desperately, looked up to her as everything that Elissa wanted to be. By the time she was seven, the same year the Queen died, that Elissa knew that Rowan wasn't happy, and she knew that somehow Maric was responsible. So she hated him on principle. It wasn't until she was much older…seventeen? eighteen?...that she had finally come to understand something of the King. Not long before he had died, in fact. Disappeared, she reminded herself. Disappeared.

She remembered that day that she had come across him in the palace, sitting in a chair in a dark corner and looking so _sad._ There was something so lost in the way that he'd glanced up at her that Elissa's heart actually hurt for him. He hadn't said anything, just went back to staring at the worn edge of a tapestry. Elissa had been painfully aware of why that was. Lady Cousland had never treated the King with anything warmer than vague respect, the honour due to the position and not the man. The few words they had exchanged in private consisted of Maric attempting to be polite or (Maker forbid!) to make her smile, and Elissa doggedly refused to be pleased.

In the end, she had walked away. Shaken her head at him, and walked away. Elissa remembered that moment every time Maric was mentioned. She cursed herself for it, especially after he had…disappeared. Had she shown him any kindness, how ever small, might he have stayed in Ferelden? Not likely, Elissa answered herself, raising her head. "I knew him."

"And…?" Alistair prompted, hunkering down beside her and gazing up at her with his warm hazel eyes. So unlike Maric's brilliant blue.

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs, I think. He didn't really say anything. Kinda bowed to me, I think, and walked off. Nobody stopped him." _Nobody tries to stop a ghost_, he kept himself from adding.

Elissa rested a hand lightly on Alistair's hair, holding him in place as she rose from her seat, "Stay here, Alistair. I'll be back soon. Tell Fergus and Teagan that I've gone to talk to the K…that I've gone to talk to Maric."

Elissa finally found him. He was in the room that had once been Rowan's, the room that she had died in. Cailan had insisted that the room remain empty, in honour of his mother. Elissa had kept up the tradition and Alistair had cooperated with a smile, unaware of the importance his brother had attached to the room.

Now it was dark and silent, every surface that wasn't covered coated in a layer of dust. In the sunlight, heavily filtered by the dirty window, Elissa could see the track of footprints across the floor, and the outline of a man sitting on the bed. As far as she could tell, he wasn't looking at her, so she stepped in and quietly closed the door behind her. He still didn't move. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her fingers, always speckled with rings, intertwining nervously.

The only things disturbing the silence were the pounding of her heart and Maric's soft breathing. If it really was Maric. She gathered her courage and crossed the short space to the bed, its dark green coverings an unhappy grey in the dim light. But her eyes never left the man on the bed. He was wearing leather hunting boots, scuffed and worn, breeches, a white tunic and a dark cloak.

Nothing there identified him as Maric. He could be a common thief or an imposter as easily as their king. Eamon had known him well, Elissa reminded herself, and if he said it was Maric, it was Maric. She took the risk and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. He still hadn't moved. "Maric?" Elissa asked quietly, hating the edge of the fear that pitched her voice so strangely.

The man beside her drew a deep breath. It was released along with a name. "'Li ss." She would have recognized his voice anywhere. Much as she loathed herself for it, the sound of Maric talking had always soothed her. And he had done a lot of talking. The hood of his cloak was raised, concealing his face. Elissa tentatively lifted a hand, carefully drawing back the hood. She didn't breathe, unsure of whether she would find the King's good-natured face looking back at her or some kind of monster.

Dim light fell upon a strong nose, a finely carved chin, broad cheekbones. Then those bright blue eyes that so often held laughter. As the hood settled about his shoulders, his pale hair fell loose, down to his shoulders and almost silver in the dark. Maric looked at Elissa for the first time in nine years. Her golden hair was the same, though longer, but her girlish features had become sharp and proud. Haughty in their perfection. It was her eyes that struck him. There was hurt in them, the same depth of pain that now coloured his own.

Elissa could only stare. Then, carefully, she lifted her hand from Maric's hood and set it gently against his cheek. Her fingers brushed over his skin, amazed at the warmth they found there. Maric. A name, a man that had belonged to her old life, to a past that she thought she had lost forever. A man she had thought dead, that she had mourned in private, lest her mother know that her hate for the King had turned to love. But here he was, his pulse fluttering in his temple, warm and alive and _real. _She ran her thumb softly over his eye just to see him move, more proof that he was a living man.

Maric's lids blinked shut. He allowed her to run her hand over his face, allowed himself to relish the touch of her skin against his. Unable to see, to follow the flash of her rings as her fingers danced over him, he listened. He counted her breaths, his own falling into time with them. He had heard that Cailan was dead, that Loghain was dead, that Bryce was dead. Everyone he had loved was gone and for days he had had no clear idea of why he had returned. The last nine years he had spent fighting to return to Ferelden, had struggled against impossible odds, and now that he was there he hadn't a clue what to do.

That was when he had heard that Alistair was King. Maric had been unsure whether to be pleased or not, but at least he had someone to go to. A Theirin was still on the throne, but he had not wanted that life for Alistair. He couldn't even comprehend how the boy, _his_ boy, was coping. Until he heard that Lady Cousland ruled at his side. Maric had always admired Bryce's daughter. She had reminded him of Rowan. Beautiful, courageous, dutiful…and she hated him.

He knew it, though he never could bring himself to hate her in return. Whatever he had done to make her despise him, he had always felt reasonably confident that he was, somehow, at fault. Try as he might to make it up to her, she never did seem to care for him. If she wasn't sniping at him she was ignoring him. When she was a child he had wanted to protect her, to keep her happy and safe. When she was eighteen, the year he left Ferelden, he had horrified himself wondering what it would feel like to kiss her. Never mind that she had paid more attention to the orphans in the Alienage than to him.

But she was here, now. Those were her fingers tracing patterns on his cheeks. Those were her breaths he was counting. Thirty three, now. When he felt her nails trail softly down his jaw and away, her touch gone, he opened his eyes. There were tears falling down her cheeks. Elissa's own eyes, the dark blue of her father's, were brimming with more tears unspilled. Where his heart had been beating moments before suddenly felt hollow. He ached.

"It's alright, 'Liss. Don't cry, shh, now, don't cry…" He murmured soothing, meaningless words to her. Gently as he could, he brushed away the tears on her cheeks, moving without conscious thought. Before he was aware Maric had wrapped his arms around Elissa's shoulders. She let herself be pulled into Maric's embrace, stiff and stoic. Alistair. This was his father, and there she was, wanting nothing more than to feel him against her, to tell her she missed him and loved him and that he was not to leave her alone again.

No. She could not possibly do that to Alistair. Not to the man who stood with her against an Arch Demon. Who had made her Queen and trustingly did whatever she thought best. The man who _loved_ her, for Andraste's sake! Her resolve lasted until she felt and heard Maric's muffled sob. His head was buried against her shoulder, arms pressing her against his chest, grasping her desperately.

Elissa could feel his ragged breathing, the wetness of his tears against her neck. She did what she wished she had done all those years ago and wrapped her arms around him. She slipped one hand beneath his cloak, her fingers knotting in his tunic, while her other hand reached up to tangle in his hair, alternately smoothing and twining with the silky strands. Elissa needed him as close to her as he could get. She needed to feel his heart beating, to dry his tears, to make him stop hurting. She had seen and known far too much hurt in her life, and she couldn't bear his.

There was no conscious thought on her part when she used her hold on his hair to guide his head back. Even Alistair faded from thought when Elissa bent her head and finally felt his lips against hers. Warm and soft and kissing her back. He held her head, keeping her from moving as he half rose from his place on the bed. She was his son's wife and everything about this was wrong, Maric told himself. But he had loved her first. And she wouldn't let him go that easily. When she reached up to pull him down to her again, her lips parted and her eyes filled with love and need, Maric knew he was lost.

He kissed her again, powerful and hungry. His tongue flicked into her mouth and tasted her, his hands everywhere – in her hair, on her shoulders, her side, her back. Elissa undid the clasp of his cloak, tossing it onto the floor. She could taste him, her sweet Maric who used to try so hard to amuse or fool her into merely being nice to him. And now she wanted him more desperately than she had ever wanted any man. Reaching down, she pulled his tunic up and up, her knuckles grazing over his taut muscles. They both gasped for breath when their lips parted and Maric pulled the tunic the rest of the way over his head.

Elissa ran her fingers over his torso. There were scars there that hadn't been before. She had seen him after swimming in Lake Calenhad, hunting with her father and brother. There had been no scars. Maric laid light kisses down her neck and over her shoulder, pulling the wide neck of her gown down as he went. His lips followed her dress, passed her collarbone and between her breasts.

For an instant he simply let his cheek rest against her breast, savouring the feel of her heartbeat before taking one of her nipples in his mouth. Elissa gasped with pleasure at the tug of his lips against her sensitive skin, her breath coming sharp at the pressure of his kisses and the graze of his teeth. Maric let her gown fall from his grasp and it pooled at her knees where she knelt on the bed. He released her breast and trailed his tongue down to her navel, nipping softly at her skin as he went. Maric didn't dare go further. Instead, with one last kiss he pushed himself away from her and rose, his hands lingering possessively on the swell of her hips.

Elissa moaned when the blessed touch of his lips left her. She opened her eyes and looked down at Maric. Where before she had been against making love to Maric at all, she was now worried that he would refuse her. Leaning forward, Elissa kissed Maric deeply, meanwhile reaching down to untie the laces of his breeches. She pushed the waistband passed his hips and could feel his manhood throbbing against her hand. "Liss'…" Maric murmured, a trace of warning in his tone.

It was dangerous to let him speak, to let him talk himself out of it when Elissa needed him so badly. She slipped her tongue into his mouth to reassure him, and pushing his breeches down grabbed his hot length in her hand. Maric gasped into her mouth as her fingers enclosed him. He knew what she was going to do, and that there wasn't time. He broke off their kiss for the second time, bending down to pull off his boots and remove his breeches completely.

While he did this, Elissa released her hold on him, instead running her lips and tongue over his shoulders and back. She wanted to kiss every inch of him, if such a thing could possibly serve as an apology for eighteen years of ill treatment. But he pulled her farther up onto the bed, tenderness replaced by burning need. Elissa opened her legs to him, and Maric arched over her, guided by nothing but desire.

With one hand he guided himself into her, groaning at the discovery of how wet and tight she was. Elissa moaned when Maric entered her, his fullness filling her aching emptiness. She scraped her nails down his back, pulling him to her as he began to thrust. He took her roughly, impaling her with quick, hard thrusts. Elissa bent her knees to accommodate him, matching herself to his rhythm, moaning with pleasure.

As the pitch of her need became feverish and Maric's movements more insistent, Elissa threw back her head to try to breathe. She grabbed the dusty quilt for purchase, throwing herself against Maric, delighting in every brutal push that filled her. Her desire finally reached its peak, and her gasps became a word endlessly repeated, "Maric…". With Elissa convulsing around his length, his name falling from her lips in the most delicious symphony, Maric buried himself as deeply as he could inside her. His member shuddered and twitched as it emptied inside her, filling Elissa with his hot seed.

The last weak pulsations from his spent organ seemed to sap the strength from Maric. Sighing Elissa's name, he collapsed on top of her, their sweat mingling. She wrapped her arms around him, cradling his head against her chest and kissing his forehead again and again. "I love you," she murmured.

Maric sighed wearily, but smiled nonetheless, "And I you," he answered, turning his head to kiss her collarbone tenderly. His eyes began to blink shut. It was no moment for sleeping, he knew. Yet it was the first time in nine years that he felt both safe and loved, and Elissa Cousland was in his arms and he had no desire to change that. No, he reminded himself, he couldn't keep her, she was…

"Elissa?" A shocked voice filled the room, somewhere between a whisper and a scream. A man's voice. Maric was immediately up on his elbows and reaching for something, anything to defend Elissa. He stopped, utterly stunned, when he found himself staring into the horrified eyes of Alistair…


End file.
